Friendship, Advice and Some Good Wine
by banhan
Summary: Basically each chapter will be a oneshot in which D'Artagnan shares a moment with each of the musketeers. (Also posted on my AO3 account).
1. Unusually Responsible

**Disclaimer: I obviously don't own The Musketeers...unfortunately. **

"Lad, there are some things in life that you don't do. One of them is being disrespectful to the Captain". Porthos looked amused as he watched the young Gascon boy muck out the stables with a frown on his face. The young musketeer had yet to learn the patience that the older musketeers had acquired over time, though Porthos hoped the boy would learn his lesson about speaking out against his turn, especially when it was at the expense of bringing embarrassment to the Captain in front of the other musketeers.

D'Artagnan groaned, "I really should have kept my mouth shut", much to Porthos' amusement the boy knocked his head against the wooden door, "I should have learnt by now. Honestly, I wonder if I even belong with you lot".

Unease settled itself within Porthos' stomach as the grave tone his friend used worried him. Yes, he had questioned Treville's plan to rid of the bandit's in front of the other musketeer's and yes, he had sounded immensely rude by doing so, but it wasn't bad enough for him to question his place amongst the other musketeers. There were times when he had spoken out of turn, but he learnt from it just as he was sure D'Artagnan would.

Porthos crossed his arms in front of his chest, remaining quiet whilst D'Artagnan continued on with his duty with a look of anger on his face.

_The boy needs to stop blaming himself..._thought Porthos as he and the younger musketeer walked to the tavern after D'Artagnan had finished his duty for the day. Unsurprisingly, the boy smelt horrible after the day at the stable's so Porthos made his change into a clean and less smelly attire, after all, it wouldn't do much for his reputation if he was seen wandering around with a smelly musketeer.

Porthos was the only one speaking out of the two, with D'Artganan only saying something here and there to keep up an appearance that he was listening, but Porthos knew the boy was too preoccupied to talk, but he chose not to call him out on it as he didn't want to add any further distress to the boy.

"Lad, you wanna tell me what's bothering you?", the older man asked, taking a large drink of the flavorsome wine. D'Artagnan shrugged but didn't say anything. It appeared that he was just as stoic as Athos was when he was drunk. "Look kid, I ain't particularly good at this thing, but you gotta help me out 'ere and talk to me. What's going on in that thick skull of yours?". Though Porthos' words were said with no anger or malice, D'Artagnan flinched slightly as if he were being reprimanded.

The young musketeer took a breath, "it's just that. I don't seem to think, I never do. I talk without thinking and even in a battle, I act without thinking. I could get myself killed, I could get you killed, or Aramis or Athos", D'Artagnan's voice was but a mere whisper and Porthos had to move closer to be able to hear it.

Porthos smiled brightly.

The idiot of a boy was worried about not using his head enough but here he was, using his head _too _much. After a day of cleaning the stables he was learning and Porthos had no doubt that he felt bad about being disrespectful to the Captain.

"Here's what you ought to do", started Porthos, unusually serious, "you've got to the Captain first thing in the morning and apologize for what you did and make it clear that it won't happen again. You'll do whatever he asks of you without any sort of attitude or remark. I've known Treville a long time and you're lucky he only had you cleaning out the stables".

"What if he thinks that I'm too irresponsible to be a musketeer?", D'Artagnan asked, looking far too insecure for Porthos' liking.

"If he 'ad thought that, you would be on your way back to Gascony and not sitting 'ere with me", Porthos replied cheerfully, knowing full well that if Treville didn't like the young Gascon then everyone in Paris would have known about it. "You're a good lad, just use your head a bit more and you might find that you stay out of trouble".

Porthos watched as D'Artagnan smiled; it was clear to say that the young musketeer had learnt his lesson...hopefully.

**I'm doing a series of oneshots where D'Artagnan shares a moment with each of the musketeers. This is the first installment and I hope you guys like it! :)**


	2. Guilt and Sorrow

_**Aramis **_

Aramis stood back as he watched D'Artagnan punch the wall with his fist. He just couldn't understand why the younger man was behaving like this; why was he acting so somber and angry for? Aramis flinched as the younger musketeer threw his glass down to the floor with a yell. Surely the wine D'Artagnan had consumed earlier was not the only culprit for his mood. With a sigh, Aramis took a hesistant step forward, unsure of how to deal with his friend when he was like this. He could handle Athos drunk, he could even handle loud and rowdy Porthos when he was drunk, but D'Artagnan was on a whole different level right now and he was unsure of how to deal with him.

As D'Artagnan made a move to hit the wall again, Aramis made the decision to stop him, knowing full well that if he kept this up then he would damage his hand and be unable to fulfil his duties as a musketeer. Putting a firm hand on the younger's shoulder, Aramis slowly led him away from the wall and onto his bed.

"Enough", he said firmly but with sympathy in his tone. His grip on the younger tightened as he tried to push him away, "You're drunk and behaving worse than Athos does."

D'Artagnan made a sound between a scream and cry, breaking Aramis' heart in two, "Get. Away!", the young man cried, successfully pushing the older man off of him as he attempted to walk out the door, but Aramis being as he was, quickly recovered his wits and ran over to the younger musketeer and wrapped his arms around his waist to stop his from lashing out.

"Let. Me. Go."

This made Aramis hold on tighter as the boy thrashed about in his arms in futile attempt to get away. There was a few times that Aramis had to avoid getting an elbow to the face, but sill, he remained patient whilst his friend got his anger out of his system. The older musketeer hoped that once his friend got his anger out of his system, he would be able to confide in him. As it was, the boy slowly stopped wriggling about – much to the relief of Aramis– and was slowly becoming limp in his arms.

It was kind of amusing, Aramis thought to himself, that one moment the youngest musketeer was so filled with anger and energy only to exhaust himself from it.

Leading D'Artagnan over to his bed once more, he sat down next to him and watched as the boy bit his bottom lip worriedly. "What's the matter?", Aramis asked, his voice gentle and caring. At D'Artagnan's silence he continued, "I can't help you if you don't talk to me."

The boy remained silent for a moment. "I've just had a _really _bad day."

"Surely a bad day was not the culprit for the dent in the wall?", Aramis said it as a joke but still, the younger man didn't seem to take it as one. "Tell me what's happened, I can help you."

"I don't think you can", D'Artagnan mumbled, running a hand through his dark locks.

"You can tell me...", Aramis prompted once more.

The other musketeer sighed deeply before speaking, "today marks the one year anniversary of my father's death."

Aramis was momentarily stunned into silence by this news. Of course he knew the anniversary was coming up but in light of recent events he had forgotten, which didn't do well in comforting his friend. He felt deep sympathy for his brother in arms, he truly did, but he couldn't let D'Artagnan get caught up in a web of emotions. It wouldn't do well for him to be distracted at a time like this. Paris was an extremely dangerous place and with the Cardinal constantly scheming, every musketeer had to be on high alert. But that wasn't the only reason Aramis wanted D'Artagnan to not dwell on the anniversary of his father's death. No. He knew how the young man – barely a man, if you asked Aramis – coped with things. By God, he was worse than Athos was when dealing with grief.

"It will get easier"

D'Artagnan shook his head, "for a while I thought it had, but now it's worse than ever. I can't help but feel guilty"

"Why"

"When I first came to Paris I was so busy that I barely had time to grieve...there were days when I would think very little about my father and his death and then there were times when I didn't even think about him at all". D'Artagnan took a deep breath, "I was so enamored with the musketeer life that I forgot about him...and my old life".

When he had finished speaking, Aramis just sat there with his mouth slightly agape. Now _he _felt guilty; he and the others had always kept the boy busy without even thinking about how he was coping.

"You shouldn't feel guilty for living your life, your father wouldn't have you wanted you to be sad all the time". Aramis putted a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder, "this is what grieving is all about, you get sad, angry, and then you feel guilty. But you want to know something?"

"What", D'Artagnan asked quietly.

"You shouldn't feel guilty about living."

It was quite for a moment and Aramis silently wondered if D'Artagnan had fallen asleep sitting upright, that was until he replied with "when did you get so wise?". There was a playful tone in his voice and Aramis smiled.

"I've always been wise, you've just never noticed. Now, get some sleep, we've got a long day ahead of us tomorrow!".

Aramis waited until his younger friend had gotten comfortable and fallen asleep before leaving. He was certain that his friend was still going to be upset in the morning, but there was the possibility that he would no longer need to be drunk in order to numb his feelings. Aramis just hoped that his young friend would heed his advice.

With one last look at his now sleeping friend, he left, groaning internally at the thought of having to get up early the next morning. Sometimes being a musketeer wasn't worth the lack of sleep.


	3. Actions Speak Louder Than Words

**This is the third part! It's Athos/D'Artagnan but only friendship. **

Athos' blood turned cold as he saw the young musketeer on the ground, unmoving and bleeding from a wound in shoulder. There were five men standing over D'Artagnan and their swords were aimed at his chest, ready to strike the final blow. In the darkness, Athos couldn't see who the men were or what they were wearing, so he couldn't even be sure if they were red guards or not. This angered him. He was out numbered, his young friend was unconscious and hurt, and it was dark so he was unsure of whom he was going to fight. Athos just hoped that he would have the element of surprise on his side otherwise he would not be able to get his young friend to safety.

Moving as quietly as he could at the time, he picked up a heavy rock and threw it on the opposite of where he stood, which gained the attention of the five men, who were now forgetting about an unconscious D'Artagnan on the floor. Athos hid, thankful for the shadows from the building's that were hiding him.

"What was that? came the deep voice of a man, whose eyes had gone wide in trying to take in his darkened surroundings.

"Probably nothing another man said, though Athos could tell he didn't believe his own words.

There was a loud sigh, for goodness sakes came a stern and harsh voice, and from the tone he was using, Athos suspected he was the leader of the group. "You two, go and have a look at what it was."

Athos pulled his hat down and hid further in the shadows of the building as he waited for the two men to walk a short distance away before following them, only using his dagger as the preferred weapon. Drawing his sword would be too noisy and would catch the attention of the other men, whereas his dagger was small enough to conceal and did not make any noise when drawing it from his sheath.

"It's nothing" one of the men said, sounding relieved, "there's nothing here"

With both their backs turned away from him, Athos had the upper hand. Slowly creeping up to the man closest to him, he grabbed him around the waist and before the man could make a noise he slit his throat. Blood rushed out onto Athos' hand's before he let the man fall to the ground in a heap. Despite being a soldier, he never liked killing.

The other man turned around, his mouth agape in shock but before he could say or do anything, the musketeer moved forward and stabbed him in the chest. He died instantly which Athos was happy about. Better a man die a quick death rather than a slow and painful one.

Two down, three to go...Athos thought to himself almost nonchantly. He walked back over to where the other men were, all three of them too worried to focus on their victim. Hiding a small distance away Athos smirked to himself as he heard their leader speak.

"They should have been back by now he said angrily, "You need to check on them". He pointed a stubby finger to one of the men, who complied almost instantly.

This was his chance to take down the man and even the odds even more. Once again, he waited until the man unintentionally distanced himself before following. This time Athos took extra care in staying hidden and as quiet as possible. The training lessons when he first started in the regiment played in the back of his mind; Treville had first told him that the two most important factors when taking the offensive in a surprise attack was being patient and being as quiet as possible. At the time he thought Treville to be overly cautious and annoying with the amount of training he put Athos through, but now he was incredibly thankful for the training. It certainly came in handy at the moment. Athos made a mental note to thank Treville for the training once he got his young friend out of danger.

The man finally reached his fallen friends. The shock was evident on his face and Athos nearly pitied him until he remembered that it was either they who died or D'Artagnan and he would choose his brother every time, even if it came to killing more men. "You" the man said in shock before Athos put a hand over his mouth to prevent him from alerting the others. The man struggled furthermore and Athos sighed at what he was about to do. His dagger felt heavy as he stabbed the man in the chest, exactly where his heart was. Like his friend before him, he slumped to the ground and Athos felt guilt weighing heavily on his chest. It was one thing to kill a man in battle but this was borderline sadistic and cruel. Deciding he would dwell on this later and surely drink himself to an early grave, he continued on with trying to get his dear friend to safety.

Athos once again hid behind the building, relying on the darkness of the night to conceal him as he carefully watched the remaining two men. His eyes strained against the darkness but he saw them, and the way their attention was off of his unmoving friend. They didn't even look at him at all. Athos had never been the praying type, but he found himself praying for D'Artagnan's health.

"Something isn't right", one of the men said with a slight tremble in his voice. Athos frowned, something was off with this man. He didn't sound as vengeful or even as confident as the others.

The other man, the leader, scoffed and Athos could make out the man flinching, "Thank you for that wonderful insight. You are by far the smartest man I have ever met". His voice was dripping with sarcasm, angering Athos even more. A leader should be kind and equal to his group, not be vengeful and act superior.

"What are we going to do? the man asked, fidgeting with the hilt of his sword with nervousness.

The leader shrugged, " I don't know about you, but I'm leaving", he remarked, his mannerism annoying Athos to the point where would not feel remorseful about killing him. This man was the clear leader of the group and yet he felt no duty to protect them. Had he no honor?

That disgusted Athos and the musketeer soon found himself making his presence known. "No, I don't think you will be leaving" he said coolly, tipping his hat lower over his head.

The man stopped in his tracks and put his hand on the hilt of his sword. Athos didn't wait to do the honorable thing and wait for the man to get his weapon, he just threw off his hat and lunged at the man, with his sword in his hand and the dagger in the other it made for an easy kill. His sword ripped through the mans side and his dagger ripped through his upper arm, emitting a disgruntled grunt from his opponent. Athos concluded that his dagger ripped through the artery and he would be dead within minutes...maybe even seconds.

Good, the scum deserved it.

Turning to the other man, Athos felt a tinge of sympathy. He looked to be young, maybe even younger than D'Artagnan, which was far different from his companions who were at least middle aged...and much fatter. "You can leave, I'll let you go"

Athos had many deaths on his conscience but he would not have a boys death on it.

"Monsieur", the man -no,boy- began but Athos stopped him.

"You are far too young to be killed and far too young to be persuaded into being a sadistic fool like you're friends. I just hope you don't turn out like your companions. Go!"

"Monsieur", the boy began calmly with admiration in his voice, "By killing this man you have done me a world of favors. I thank you and to repay you I vow to never be as those men were". With that he stalked off, leaving Athos with his unmoving friend.

Rushing over and kneeling down next to his friend, he saw that the wound on his shoulder was deep and would need stitching, but the wound itself wasn't life threatening. What was, however, was the blood loss. Ripping the bottom of D'Artagnan's white tunic, he bandaged the wound best as he could before he heaved him over his shoulder with a grunt. It concerned Athos how D'Artagnan didn't stir or wake up, but he decided to worry about that later.

It wasn't easy carrying his young friend back to his place. It wasn't that D'Artagnan was heavy or that Athos lacked the physical strength, it was just that D'Artagnan was dead weight. Nevertheless, he finally made it to his place, but not before bumping into a musketeer on patrol and ordering him to get Porthos, Aramis and Captain Treville. He would need their help of dealing with the mess he had made.

D'Artagnan looked pale and weak as Athos lay him down on the bed, the candles that illuminated the room didn't help with his his friend's pale complextion either. As it was, Athos gently took off D'Artagnan's tunic and had a closer look at his wound. It was an angry red and was bleeding, though not as heavily as before, but it was the head injury Athos was worried about as D'Artagnan still hadn't even stirred as yet. There was dried blood at the boy's hairline and Athos felt angry all over again from those idiots who had hurt him.

Tapping on the tanned man's cheek, he called to him. "D'Artagnan, can you hear me? If you can, you need to open your eyes". He tried to say it as loud as he could without shocking the boy into consciousness. "Boy, can you hear me?"

There was a faint groan as the boy opened his eyes, much to Athos' relief. There was a moment's silence as D'Artagnan looked around the room tiredly, his eyes not really focusing on anything. "How are you feeling? Athos asked calmly.

"I", the young musketeer croaked and Athos poured a glass of water for him, which he accepted and drank with fervor. "Thank you...and I feel...strange".

His voice didn't sound right to Athos, it sounded too quiet and fragile. "Besides your shoulder, where else are you hurt?"

The boy closed his eyes and took a breath before answering, "My head. Everything is fuzzy"

"Mm, definitely concussed", Athos replied quietly, "Get some more rest"

Once D'Artagnan was resting, he waiting at the small round table for the others. The only sound in the room was D'Artagnan's erratic breathing. It was still a relief for Athos, as the man knew that if he had not stumbled upon the young musketeer and his attackers then he would have more injuries than a concussion and a shoulder wound to worry about.

Finally, Athos was snapped out of his reverie by the door opening and in walking three of the men he asked for. It was Treville who spoke first, his eyes going from a pale D'Artagnan to Athos.

"What's going on?"

Instead of answering the Captain he addressed Aramis, "D'Artagnan has a wound on his shoulder and gash on his head. It needs stitching"

Aramis tipped his hat and said "Of course", before going over to the younger man. Athos breathed a sigh of relief at the thought of his young friend being looked after by a rather talented and competent person. Turning back to Porthos and the Captain he recounted what had transpired a mere forty-five minutes ago and the more he spoke, the higher the Captain's eyebrows went.

"Athos the Captain began, "That was a good plan, simple, but good."

"But where are the bodies? Porthos inquired.

Athos sighed heavily, "Where I left them, I suppose someone ought to move them before civilians find them and do what they do best: panic

Porthos chuckled, "Right about that you are. Where are they?"

And so Athos told them where they were and both the Captain and the musketeer set out to remove the bodies from the public eye. As they left, the eldest musketeer gravitated near the bed and found Aramis stitching the nasty wound on the boy's shoulder. Neither of them said anything for a while. Aramis was concentrating too much to talk and Athos was focusing on D'Artagnan's face, watching him grimace in his sleep, occasionally making a sound of discomfort. Athos thanked his lucky stars that D'Artagnan didn't wake up throughout the ordeal. If he had, he probably would have panicked and ruined Aramis' needle work whilst it was still being perfected.

"Has he woken up at all?", Aramis asked with concern, pushing the boys hair out of his face.

"He did, only for a small moment. He complained of his head hurting though the boy was so tired I told him to continue resting".

"Yes", Aramis began, "I would assume his head would be hurting. There's a bump on the back of his head that will be hurting for quite some time". Aramis covered D'Artagnan with the blanket before washing his hands and sitting down at the table.

Athos joined him and straight away he was being asked questions by Aramis. "Why would those men attack him for? There is no precedent."

The older man shrugged, "I'm sure they didn't have any idea who D'Artagnan was. They probably would have roughed him up a bit and D'Artagnan being who he is, fought back. He was obviously outnumbered, five, or I should really say four, against one are bad odds. Even by musketeer standards."

"I would still like to know who they are."

They both lapsed into silence, both too occupied with their own thoughts to talk. Athos was silently wishing he could go to the tavern and forget the faces of the men he killed

This time is different...

Of course it was, Athos silently reprimanded himself. He didn't kill these men for no reason, he did it to save one of his own. Porthos and Aramis would have done exactly the same thing, he was sure of it. Perhaps he wasn't the bad person he feared he was; he wasn't exactly good either but he wasn't bad. He was neutral. He did what he had to do in order to save a brother in arms.

Eventually Porthos came back, though he was alone. "Treville went back to his office to organize a meeting with the king at first light. It seems that the men Athos intercepted were known for other crimes as well."

Aramis smiled, "Well, that's good news! Athos won't be reprimanded for what he did."

"If there's any relief, then I suppose that's it", Athos replied.

The three were once again silent until Athos suggested they go home and sleep, after all, he was sure he could look after D'Artagnan now that he was no longer bleeding profusely.

As it was, D'Artagnan slept through the night, only waking up briefly for some more water. Athos on the other hand, didn't sleep, he dozed of quickly but quickly woke up again. With the rising sun, D'Artagnan woke up with a groan and the older musketeer found himself moving over to the bed straight away, checking for a fever...which he didn't have, thankfully.

"You're worrying for no reason", the boy said quietly, closing his eyes briefly and rubbing at his temple.

"Probably, but I don't want you developing a fever". He wet a rag and put it on the boys forehead for good measure, wanting to keep him cool as he healed.

"I'm fine, a bit sore, but fine

"That you are", Athos smirked at the boy's hatred of being worried over.

"Worry wart", D'Artagnan murmured before lying back against the pillows.

Athos didn't disagree. He was worried about the younger musketeer, Athos worried about him every time they went on separate missions, or whenever he couldn't keep an eye on him. Every time D'Artagnan was out of his sight Athos could never rest as he was constantly worrying and that would never change he was sure. He had come to see D'Artagnan as his friend, his younger brother and an adopted son. The worrying would never stop and nor would he stop trying to keep D'Artagnan safe from the enemies clutches. They were brothers and brothers take care of each other.

**Hoped you guys liked it. I don't know why but when I uploaded this to the site it did a weird thing and changed everything around so if you found a mistake let me know. Reviews are appreciated. **

**Also, there will be two more parts to this I think. Next one will be Treville/D'Artagnan and then the final part will be all of them :) **


	4. Two People From Gascony

**So this one is about Treville and D'Artagnan, it's basically Treville offering D'Artagnan some advice. :) **

D'Artagnan stood in the center of a bloody battle, his breathing loud as blood – not his own – was on his clothing and on his face, some even in his hair. He looked around wildly as he searched for other musketeers, nearly all of whom made it out of the battle alive, though some of them were injured. The Gascon thanked his lucky stars that Athos, Porthos and Aramis weren't there fighting in this battle as they were on a mission. If his friends' were there with him he would have fought with his heart over his head and gotten himself and many others killed.

As he looked down at the convulsing English man down by his feet, he knew it would have been cruel to let the man suffer any longer (despite him being an enemy of France), so he did the only thing possible and brought his sword down on the man's chest, ending the suffering he was going through. He felt guilt weigh on his chest as he looked at all the death and destruction around him. His duty was to protect France, he knew that, but he still couldn't help but feel bad at the amount of killing he had done today. It was either France or the England, an ongoing dispute between the two, but still, they were people too. How many son's had he killed today? How many father's, brother's and friend's had he killed today? They were soldiers too, stuck in a grueling game of chess between the two countries that seemed to be never ending.

D'Artagnan didn't realize he was shaking until someone put a hand on his shoulder; it was gentle and dare he say it, comforting? He looked into the face of Treville, who by the looks he was giving the Gascon understood how he was feeling, though he could conceal it better due to years of being a soldier.

"We're making a camp tonight before riding back to Paris in the morning", Treville spoke softly, and said in almost paternal tone, "come on".

He gently guided the young Gascon away from the dead bodies that littered the floor and away a small distance where some of the musketeers were already making camp. Normally they would travel a distance before making camp but no more English men would be attacking France anymore so they decided to rest where they fought. Not an ideal situation but every man was tired after the battle and their bodies demanded rest.

"Sit", the Captain said, pointing to a thick log on the floor whilst he sat on one across from him. A warm fire was going in the middle and D'Artagnan found himself putting his hands outward toward it, using the heat to warm up his freezing cold hands.

It wasn't even that cold, but for some reason he was shaking.

"How are you doing?", Treville asked, looking at the young Gacson carefully.

"Fine", D'Artagnan replied quickly. It was a lie though, he wasn't fine. He had just murdered more men than he could count and he had no idea how he was going to get over this one. It was his duty to kill men but he wasn't sure if he liked it. With the grief weighing on him, D'Artagnan was stripped of all his enthusiasm and passion, leaving, in it's wake, a young man who had seen too much death and who had killed too much men. Surely this was not a healthy profession.

"Hey", Treville said gently, which stunned D'Artagnan more than the deaths had, "how you're feeling right now is normal."

The Gascon frowned. He wasn't really sure what he was feeling. Of course he felt bad about killing these men, but at the same time he felt angry about them attacking his country and therefore he felt stupid about grieving over these men. Out of everything, however, he felt sad. Sad about killing someones relative or friend. He remembered what it had felt like when he had lost his father and now he had put a son through the same turmoil.

"I don't know how I'm feeling", he admitted, looking down at his sword with a look of disgust. It didn't feel right to be holding a weapon that had killed so many.

Treville remained silent for a moment, watching the young man go through different emotions. "Have I told you that I once lived in Gascony?"

D'Artagnan's head perked up so fast it nearly gave him whiplash, "really?", he asked.

"Yes, my family owned a farm there but when I was sixteen I left to come to Paris to join the regiment. I remember walking into the Garrison with an attitude and a temper that was easily flared up. I got punished many times but I never learnt my lesson...not until there was an attack on the king's life.", Treville paused for a moment, recalling the memory, "I had never seen so many men storm the palace before, so many assassins in one place trying to end the king's life. Of course they just wanted to kill him to brag about it, but nevertheless me and my fellow musketeers fought side by side defending him and the queen. About twenty musketeers were killed in the process.

The amount of bodies that littered the polished walls was horrible. There was a moment where I wanted to walk out of the palace and leave Paris all together, but I remembered my duty and why I wanted to be a musketeer in the first place. Through all the grief and bloodshed I continued my duties and got on with what I was doing, though I was never the same as I was before. I was no longer loud and proud or did I have a temper. I changed."

Without realizing it, D'Artagnan had tears in his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. Him and the Captain were more alike than he ever realized. "Do you ever regret staying?".

"Not for one moment. Battle changes people, it changed me but we can choose how we come out of it. We can either choose to drink ourselves to an early grave or we can go crazy thinking about what could have been, or we can come out of it stronger than ever. We can live with what we did knowing that we saved many people's lives tonight. D'Artagnan, let me ask you a question. If you had the option, would you choose to kill five men in order to protect twenty or more that they may kill in the future?"

"Of course.", D'Artagnan replied back instantly.

"Well then what you did tonight was no different, you killed enemies to save the king and queen, to save everyone that you care for. It doesn't seem so bad to me."

D'Artagnan sighed, still feeling conflicted. "I don't know how to go on after this."

"It'll take some time, D'Artagnan, to understand what you did and why you did it, but once you do understand, I can assure you, you will be fine."

"But how could you know that?", he was skeptical.

Treville shrugged, "We're from Gascony, we're stronger than people give us credit for."

After the talk with Treville, D'Artagnan felt slightly better about what he had done. The sadness was still there, as was the anger but there was a spark of hope within him that maybe, just maybe, he could get passed all of this and come out of stronger just like the Captain had. If anyone knew about grief and sadness it was Treville, so D'Artagnan trusted the man's judgement, after all, he had probably been through more than the musketeers had.

With a sigh, D'Artagnan made a make-shift bed a little way away and fell asleep. Though he was plagued with terrible nightmares, he was reassured by the fact that he had saved many people's lives and that was the only thing that had gotten him through the night.

**Also, I'm reading the book again and Treville was from Gascony! Like, I seriously forgot about that!**


	5. Fevers and Friends

******This chapter is dedicated to Tidia and JenF, thanks for the review's you beautiful people! Also, this is the last chapter. It was only meant to be a short story full of one-shots and I may have gotten carried away with it and written more than I intended to****.**

There was a sharp, agonizing pain in his chest that made D'Artagnan grit his teeth together in pain and groan loudly. This was not how he envisioned this mission going, in fact, he envisioned it going much smoother than it had. All they were meant to do was look into the deaths of four men in a village just outside Paris, but there was an ambush waiting for them, one they – no, _he – _didn't expect. It was silly of him to not be on guard, and now he was paying the price. As unprepared as he was, he didn't have much time to gather his wits and defend himself to the best of his abilities. A thrust of a sword in his right breast had him standing upright in shock for a few seconds before collapsing to the ground in a heap.

There was the sweet, blissful moment where a complete white obscured his vision and nothing hurt, but then as quickly as it came, it went and was replaced by a throbbing sensation. He was in complete and utter agony and he just wanted it to stop as soon as possible; D'Artagnan wished for death to hurry up and claim him. _Surely_ it would have been better than the pain he was in. Vaguely he was aware of someone by his side, saying his name over and over again, begging him to open his eyes, but he just couldn't do it. He just wanted to hurry up and die.

/

D'Artagnan was hot, far too hot. He was sweating profusely and his mouth was exceedingly dry. He needed water, lot's and lot's of water. He must have been asking for it, because someone held a glass to his mouth and he eagerly drank it, pouting as someone took it away from him and demanded he slow down lest his body went into shock. But D'Artagnan didn't care about that, he just wanted to stop the burning and quench his thirst. The last thing he heard before letting the blackness engulf him once-more was someone telling him that he would be alright.

/

There was a throbbing sensation behind his eyes and he never wanted to open them and face the world. Even the darkness was giving him a headache. His chest was aching and so was his forearm, making him think he fell on it.

"He's waking up", came the harsh whisper of a man. It was comfortingly familiar, "Boy, can you hear me?"

There was movement to his right, "Athos", said a soft voice, "Leave him. He need's rest"

"He's been sleeping for two days, how much longer will he be dead to the world?"

If D'Artagnan had the strength and will, he would have snapped at the man, told him to shut up and let him sleep peacefully. As it was, he didn't need to as someone else said it for him. "Shut up", came a rough voice from his left, "let the lad sleep, would 'ya?"

He didn't stay aware any longer; his bodies needs were outweighing any desire to stay awake and listen to the three men. He was just far too exhausted.

/

The next time he regained consciousness he finally opened his eyes. Everything was blurry, and his eyes were darting all over the room, trying to take everything in, but unable to focus. His breathing was labored as he tried to fight through the pain. There was no-one in the room at the time of his waking. His throat was parched and he tried to reach the glass of water which sat on the bed-side table, only to cry out in pain as a white, hot, stabbing pain was felt all throughout his upper body. Someone ran into the room loudly and D'Artagnan nearly wept in relief at the sight of Aramis.

Looking bewildered, Aramis spoke calmly. "D'Artagnan, lie back down before you hurt yourself even more." D'Artagnan allowed himself to be pushed gently against the pile of pillows, "You must rest", Aramis chided, holding the glass of water to the young musketeers' lip's.

The Gascon exhaled slowly, "What happened?"

"You were injured during a battle", Aramis began, "almost didn't make it. Now, if you wish to recover, you _must _rest".

"Where's Athos and Porthos?", D'Artagnan questioned, stubbornly keeping his eyes open.

"They are fine, now, _please _get some rest. I'll be here when you wake up."

The Gascon slid further into his blankets, feeling his body get lighter and lighter by the second. Eventually, he closed his eyes and dreamed of his parents, or more specifically his mother. She used to make a special paste that would heal all wounds and he couldn't help but think how handy this healing paste would be right now.

He wasn't unconscious for long, only a mere two hours. This times he woke up to all three of his friends in his room, each looking relieved as he attempted a futile smile at them, which came out as a mere grimace.

"Are you feeling any better?", Aramis asked gently, pushing back the Gascon's hair from his sweaty forehead.

D'Artagnan went to shrug but thought better of it. His whole body was sore and he didn't want to aggravate the his wound any further. "I feel...", he took a second to answer, finding it difficult to string a sentence together. "...funny", he finally said, not being able to think of a better word to describe how he felt.

"To be expected", it was Athos who spoke, looking like he was the one in pain as he stared down at the Gascon, "you are extremely lucky"

"So I've been told", he replied, looking down at his bandaged chest with horror etched on his features, "how badly was I injured?"

There was a moment's silence as the three musketeers' shared a look with each other. Finally, it was Porthos who spoke, "we didn't think you were gonna' make it. The sword almost punctured your lung. Just when we thought you were gonna' make it, you 'ad to go and get the bloody wound infected".

"Don't tell me you had to cauterize it?", D'Artagnan pleaded, his hand's fumbling with his bandaged until they were gently pried away by Athos, who sent a stern look his way.

"No", the man replied honestly, "Aramis and the physician didn't think that was the best course of action. Unfortunately, they had to bleed you."

D'Artagnan looked down at the forearm that was heavily bandaged and started dry heaving, but there nothing in his stomach to throw-up. "Easy", Aramis warned, once again, giving him some water, "Can you stomach some soup?"

The Gascon nodded his head at the same time his stomach grumbled in hunger. The soup was warm and tasty, and he wanted to eat it as quickly as possible, but was stopped by Athos, the man claiming he would make himself sick.

"I've never tasted anything better in my entire life!", he exclaimed.

Athos chuckled. "I'll bet. You've been unconscious for three days."

"How am I so tired then?", D'Artagnan asked, exasperated. "Makes no sense".

He closed his eyes again and fell asleep, feeling better than he had previously.

/

D'Artagnan was still weak and constantly tired; he slept the day's away as he recovered, only being woken up by his friend's during the day so he could fill his stomach with food. He was finally able to eat something other than soup, though due to his day's of unconsciousness and delirium, he had lost weight and he had dark circles under his eyes. His face was pale and his face looked gaunt, but he was slowly regaining strength, so everything Aramis and the physician did to ensure that he lived was working.

On the fifth day of being on well-needed best rest, he wasn't even surprised to find a priest by his bed-side, praying for further recovery and thanking God for his recovery thus far. Needless to say, he feigned sleep. He had always felt uncomfortable around priests'. D'Artagnan ignored the snort of laughter from Porthos and the disapproving sound Aramis made.

On the seventh day of recovery, when he had regained enough strength to sit up on his own without the assistance of the pillows, he was surprised by the person visiting him. He and Athos were talking quietly amongst themselves when Captain Treville walked in. The man smiled kindly at the two as he pulled up a chair next to the bed.

"I was surprised by your recovery", Treville admitted, "No-one was sure if you would make it!"

D'Artagnan smiled kindly at the Captain, "A lot of people have said that to me."

"Your recovery is truly remarkable"

"Luckily Aramis know's what he's doing, otherwise I would be dead by now", D'Artagnan responded truthfully.

"Better than any physician", Athos agreed.

"You've gotten skinnier", Treville observed, "you would have lost a lot of your strength. Once you are well enough, we will need to think of a new training regime. Your wound will be hurting for quite sometimes, so you need to find a way to protect it from your opponent. In a fight, they will use that to their advantage."

"Porthos thinks a breast-plate would be useful for protection until it heals", Athos gave a curt nod to the Captain, "once he is well enough, I'll take him to the armory myself."

Treville nodded with understanding, "There's still the issue of fighting. D'Artagnan may have to use his left hand"

The Gascon chose this moment to interrupt, "I'm willing to learn. It'll be hard, but I'll do whatever it takes to fulfill my duties", he looked towards Athos, surprised to see the man smiling at him.

"You truly are a Gascon-farm boy!", Treville exclaimed, "the most loyal men, and not to mention the better fighters".

"Of course you would say that. You're from Gascony as well, aren't you?", Athos asked with a knowing look.

Treville merely smiled at D'Artagnan before exiting the room, leaving a slightly confused D'Artagnan and for once, a carefree and almost content Athos.

/

"Alright", Athos began, holding his sword in-front of him. "You need to work on your footwork. Watching you, it's almost as if you're unbalanced"

"I _feel _unbalanced", D'Artagnan grumbled, his sword feeling far too heavy in his left hand. "I don't know what I'm doing wrong"

"Easy", Athos soothed, "Right now your facing your body to the right as if you're still using your right arm. You see the issue? Put your left foot forward and your right foot further back". D'Artagnan complied, "Good. Now, as you strike with your sword, step forward and move your feet, so that your right foot is in-front"

D'Artagnan's sword met with Athos' and the sheer force of the blades knocking against each other almost send him stumbling back, but he managed to keep his footing, earning acknowledgement from the two spectators.

"See", Porthos cheered loudly, "he's improved already!"

"Yes, yes", Aramis said, "if I didn't know better I would say you're more excited than D'Artagnan is"

"Hey", the Gascon called out, "at least someone is excited for me. Thank you, Porthos", he said, looking at Porthos with a smile that everyone was glad to see. It was a vast improvement than two weeks ago when he was lying on what everyone believed to be his death bed.

"The way you treat Porthos, you would think he was the one who stayed up all night tending to your wound's", Aramis replied cheekily, ducking as Porthos took a friendly swipe at him.

"Or the one training you", Athos put in quietly, earning a sarcastic smile from Aramis.

D'Artagnan couldn't help the laugh that escaped his lips, "he hasn't done any of those things, _but, _he buys me drinks"

Athos rolled his eyes, "are drinks more important than training?"

"Sometimes", he answered back truthfully, and Athos couldn't exactly reprimand him for saying that. The boy clearly got that from him...unfortunately.

Porthos laughed loudly as Aramis mumbled a quick prayer for his friend's. They were all alcoholics. Each and everyone of them. Before he knew it, he was going to be the only sane one left in the group.

"If you manage to defeat me at least once today, I will buy you a drink", Athos said, hoping to regain the boy's focus.

"Deal", D'Artagnan replied, before taking the offensive.

As the Gascon stared down at Athos ten minutes later with a smug smile on his face, he simply said, "you owe me a drink", before walking away confidently. It was fair to say he would he make a great swordsman even using his left hand.

******This was a little hard to write for some reason and I realize it may not be as good as my other one-shot's but hey I tried! Please leave a review and tell me what you think.**

******Also, I'm working on a fic right now and I intend to have it up in a week, so keep your eyes open for it!**


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